


Breathing Easy

by enigmaticblue



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-04
Updated: 2011-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 21:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair always figured that if anyone were going to get pneumonia, it would be him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathing Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hc_bingo prompt "pneumonia".

After Blair had drowned, the doctors warned him that his lungs had probably been weakened, and that he’d have to be careful when he got a cold. He would be more susceptible to pneumonia, and other lung problems. So, Blair figured that if anyone were going to get pneumonia, it would be him.

 

Of course, nothing ever works quite like Blair expects.

 

In this case, they’re checking in with one of Jim’s informants down by the docks when they spot Mason Cooper, a fugitive wanted for a string of armed robberies in Cascade and the surrounding area. Unfortunately, Cooper spots them while they’re still a hundred feet away and takes off running.

 

Chasing after him is bad enough, but when they close the distance, Cooper grabs a bystander, a middle-aged woman wearing woolen slacks and a pea coat. If Blair has to guess, judging from the clothing and carefully applied makeup, she’s probably a secretary for one of the shipping offices along the waterfront.

 

She lets out a little scream, and Cooper shakes her a bit, pressing a gun against the side of her neck. “Stay back!” he shouts. “I’ll kill her.”

 

“Then you’ll lose your leverage,” Jim says reasonably, his gun trained on Cooper and holding steady. “You don’t want to do that.”

 

Jim makes a motion behind his back with his left hand that Blair easily interprets as “call for backup,” and Blair pulls out his cell phone to call it in. There are enough passersby that Blair is fairly sure someone has already dialed 911, but he’s not willing to take the chance. As soon as he hangs up, Blair draws his weapon, and he and Jim advance inexorably on Cooper.

 

Cooper snarls like a cornered rat, backing up slowly and dragging the hostage with him. Blair knows that Jim is waiting for a clear shot while Blair looks for another option.

 

Blair is usually the one in charge of thinking outside the box in situations like this, while Jim does what he does best. It’s a good division of labor, and it’s what makes them good partners.

 

Cooper backs right up to the edge of the pier and seems to realize he’s out of options, because he turns lightning quick and shoves the hostage into the water before making a break for it.

 

“Oh, shit,” Blair curses.

 

It’s one of those moments when time slows and he can _see_ everything go pear-shaped, even though there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Those moments occur with distressing frequency in police work—and even more frequently around Jim.

 

Jim calls _Blair_ a trouble magnet, but Blair knows better.

 

Jim is already kicking off his shoes and stripping off his jacket. “Get Cooper!” he shouts before diving in, his body making a perfect arc to break the surface in a shallow dive.

 

Blair waits until he sees Jim’s head break the surface, until he’s certain that Jim hasn’t broken his fool neck, before he takes off after Cooper. He’s grateful that Jim has moved past the point where he orders Blair to stay in the truck, and that he trusts Blair to run down even a bad guy like Cooper.

 

Blair had graduated from the Academy in better shape than he’d ever been in, and he’s kept that up in the last few months. Working out is just one more thing he and Jim do together, and he feels the heady rush of adrenalin as he puts on an extra burst of speed. His muscles sing with exertion, and Blair leaps, tackling Cooper and immediately rolling to his feet in a move he wishes Jim could have seen.

 

Cooper is panting for breath and sweating, in spite of the cool March air, and Blair pushes him back down, sending Cooper sprawling as he pulls out his handcuffs. “Stay down, asshole,” Blair advises, cuffing Cooper and tucking his gun back in its holster.

 

Okay, so he’s still a little pissed off that his partner had gone into the ocean after the hostage, especially since Jim’s been fighting a cold. It might be spring in Cascade, but the temperature still flirts with winter most days, and the sea is still really fucking cold.

 

Blair hauls Cooper to his feet just as uniforms converge. Blair shoves Cooper at the nearest officer and says, “Read him his rights, please. He’s got at least two warrants out for his arrest.”

 

He jogs back to the pier, spotting Jim’s head bobbing in the rough surf, one arm wrapped around a concrete support, and the other holding onto the woman. There are already half a dozen people swarming the pier, and all of them seem to know what they’re doing. They’ve thrown Jim a line, and three or four big, burly dockworkers haul the woman out before doing the same for Jim.

 

He pushes his way through the crowd, warning people back and thanking those who’d helped, trying to make his way to Jim’s side. Jim is shivering, his lips blue with cold, and Blair seizes his elbow. “Let’s get you to the paramedics.”

 

Jim shakes his head. “I’m fine. Nothing that a hot shower and a cup of coffee won’t cure.”

 

“Jim,” Blair begins, but he sees the stubborn tilt of Jim’s chin that means Blair’s protests will fall on deaf ears. So, he drapes Jim’s dry, discarded jacket across his broad shoulders. “All right, fine. But I’m driving.”

 

Jim doesn’t argue, which Blair thinks is probably a good indicator of just how bad he’s feeling, and Jim’s shivering shakes the cab of the truck.

 

“If you’re not warmed up by the time you get out of the shower, I’m taking you to the ER,” Blair threatens, turning up the heat in the truck. “I’m serious.”

 

“I’m fine, Chief,” Jim assures him, but his teeth are chattering so much Blair can barely make out the words.

 

“So you say,” Blair mutters, pressing #2 on his cell phone to speed dial Simon. He’s routed to voice mail, and Blair says, “Captain, it’s Blair. We caught Mason Cooper, but Jim took a swim. I’m taking him home to get a change of clothes, and we’ll be back as soon as we can.”

 

“I really am okay,” Jim insists when Blair hangs up.

 

Blair shakes his head. He can’t argue with Jim’s distribution of the labor. Blair isn’t entirely comfortable with the water—not after the fountain—and Jim is the stronger swimmer. He always has been. So, if anybody were going to dive in after the hostage, it would have to be Jim. Blair understands that, but he’s still worried about his partner.

 

Blair hustles Jim into the shower immediately, assuring Jim that he’ll grab some dry clothing. He grabs Jim’s jeans and his warmest sweater, along with socks, boxers, and a long-sleeved thermal.

 

Jim is still standing under the showerhead when Blair puts the pile of clothing just inside the door. The whole room is filled with steam, and Blair tries not to let too much heat escape. Jim doesn’t seem to notice his presence, and Blair closes the door soundlessly, and then puts on a pot of coffee.

 

When Jim emerges fully dressed, his lips are no longer blue, and he looks a lot more comfortable.

 

“How are you feeling?” Blair asks. “And I want the truth.”

 

Jim smiles. “I’m fine, Florence.”

 

“Hey, man, you wish,” Blair shoots back. “I just don’t want to nurse you back to health.”

 

Jim coughs. “Is that coffee for me?”

 

“You bet,” Blair replies, looking at Jim for concern. “Are you sure you don’t want the doctor to look at you?”

 

“I’m _sure_ ,” Jim replies impatiently. “Come on. Let’s get back to work.”

 

Blair would almost think Jim’s back to normal, except he doesn’t protest when Blair grabs the keys.

 

But Blair knows how to pick his battles. If he doesn’t push Jim now, he can pressure Jim into going to the doctor when he’s really sick.

 

Blair just hopes it doesn’t come to that.

 

~~~~~

 

Blair wakes suddenly, uncertain as to what startled him. He stares at the ceiling for a minute, trying to remember if he’d had a bad dream, or if—

 

He hears Jim coughing, a deep, wet, barking sound that makes Blair wince sympathetically.

 

In the week since Jim’s impromptu swim, his cold seems to have settled in his lungs, although this is the first time Jim’s cough has woken Blair.

 

Blair considers going back to sleep, but then Jim coughs again, and Blair sighs, rolling out of bed and reaching for his flannel robe. He finds what he needs in the kitchen—there’s the tail end of a bottle of whiskey that’s been around for a while, honey, and half a lemon. He brews a mug of tea and pours it over the whiskey, honey, and lemon juice, and then he pads upstairs.

 

Jim is still coughing as Blair walks over to the bed, and he sits up slowly. “Sorry,” Jim says hoarsely when he has his voice back.

 

He’s still red-faced and breathless, and Blair sits down on the edge of the bed, handing Jim the large mug. “Here. Grandpa’s cough medicine.”

 

Jim winces. “Sorry I woke you.”

 

“Drink up,” Blair advises. “And don’t worry about it. Just promise me that you’re going to take the day off and go to the doctor tomorrow.”

 

Jim grimaces and sips the drink. “Blair.”

 

“I’m serious,” Blair protests. “Nobody at the station needs to listen to you coughing up a lung, and they really don’t need to deal with your germs.”

 

Jim swallowed about half the drink, letting out a little cough before he says, “It’s just a cold.”

 

Blair reaches out and puts a hand on Jim’s forehead, the way he remembers Naomi doing a few times for him. “You’re running a fever. First thing tomorrow, I’m calling the doctor and making you an appointment. If you won’t do it for yourself, think of how cranky I get when I’m low on sleep.”

 

The thing about Jim is that he’ll protest and complain and refuse to go along with Blair’s demands, but when it counts, when he knows he’s beat, Jim gives in. Grumpily, maybe, but he does give in.

 

“Fine. I’ll go to the doctor, but if he says I’m okay, I’m coming into the station in the afternoon.”

 

Blair raises an eyebrow. He’d normally categorize Jim as a pessimist, maybe a realist on the best of days, but in this case? “I think you’re being a little too optimistic,” Blair says.

 

Jim smirks. “We’ll see, Einstein.”

 

“Go to sleep, Jim,” Blair advises, taking the mug out of Jim’s hands.

 

“Thanks, Chief,” Jim says softly as Blair begins descending the stairs.

 

Blair glances over his shoulder. “Any time.”

 

~~~~~

 

The next morning, Blair calls the doctor’s office first thing and makes an appointment for Jim, because he knows that Jim will get out of it if he can. He’ll claim he forgot, but Blair knows better; Jim just hates going to the doctor.

 

Jim is still snoring in the loft when Blair has to leave, and he’s grateful for small mercies. He leaves a note, letting Jim know that he has a doctor’s appointment at 11 am, and that Blair will tell Simon that Jim won’t be in. “ _And don’t even think about showing up at work!!!_” Blair writes.

 

When he arrives at the office, Megan waves at him. “How’s Jimbo?” she asks.

 

The question makes sense, since everyone in Major Crimes has been listening to Jim’s hacking cough this past week. “I made him stay home and see the doctor,” Blair replies. “He’ll be in this afternoon if he’s cleared.”

 

“Fat chance,” Megan replies, rolling her eyes. “He’s sicker than a dog, even if he won’t admit it.”

 

Blair smiles, although without much humor. “That’s what I _didn’t_ say. I need to let Simon know.”

 

When Blair gives Simon the news, the captain says, “Thank God you managed to talk some sense into him. Stick close to the office today. If Jim comes in, you’re one of the few people who might manage to send him home.”

 

“You could always make it an order,” Blair suggests.

 

“I like to reserve those for dire circumstances,” Simon replies dryly. “Just let me know what Jim says when he calls.”

 

Blair finishes up some of their paperwork and clears their in-box. He grabs a sandwich at the shop around the corner for lunch, and makes some phone calls for a couple of the cases that have gone cold. They don’t have a lot of those—their solve rate is the best in the state—but there are a few, a couple that they’ve worked from the beginning, and at least three that other detectives have asked them to help out on.

 

He keeps expecting a call from Jim, or for Jim to show up, but there’s radio silence on Jim’s end, and Blair is beginning to get worried. When 3 o’clock rolls around, Blair has had enough, and he calls Jim’s cell phone. It goes straight to voice mail, and Blair phones the loft. He gets the answering machine, and he says, “Jim, call me.”

 

Blair shifts in his chair uncomfortably, trying to focus on detective work and not on Jim, but it’s a losing proposition. He finally sticks his head in Simon’s office and says, “Do you mind if I take off early, Captain? I want to check on Jim. He’s not answering his phone.”

 

“Go,” Simon says, waving John off. “Tell him to get better soon.”

 

“You got it,” Blair promises. He’s just started up his car when he gets a call on his cell. “Hello?”

 

“Hey there,” Jim says, his voice rough. “I, uh, I need you to pick me up.”

 

“Where are you?” Blair asks immediately.

 

“At the hospital,” Jim replies. “The doctor wanted lung X-rays, and they gave me antibiotics and, uh, some cough medicine. I don’t think I’m good to drive.”

 

Blair sighs. Sometimes he thinks Jim is _too_ accepting of modern medicine, no matter how many times Blair warns him about drugs screwing with his senses. “How bad?” he asks.

 

“I’m not hallucinating?” Jim sounds uncharacteristically hesitant, and Blair knows just how sick he is. “But I’ve got pneumonia, and I’m on antibiotics.”

 

“Which hospital?” Blair asks.

 

“Cascade General,” Jim replies. “Thanks, Chief.”

 

“No problem,” Blair insists. “I’ll be there in a bit.”

 

When he pulls up in front of Cascade General, Jim is waiting out front in a wheelchair with a burly nurse behind him. “Maybe we should take my truck,” Jim protests when he sees Blair’s car, his eyes a little unfocused.

 

Blair laughs. “The Volvo is running like a dream right now, so get in. We’ll pick up your truck later.”

 

Jim doesn’t protest after that; he lets Blair help him into the Volvo, and Blair moves the seat back as far as it will go to accommodate Jim’s long legs. “Relax, Jim. I’ve got you.”

 

“I know you do,” Jim replies with perfect assurance.

 

By the time Blair pulls up in front of 852 Prospect, Jim has dozed off, and Blair shakes him awake. “Hey, we’re home,” Blair calls softly.

 

Jim starts, blinking rapidly. “Yeah, okay,” he manages. “Thanks.”

 

“You hungry?” Blair asks. “I can go grab some soup at the deli a few blocks over.”

 

Jim shrugs. “Not really.”

 

Knowing that Jim tends to lose his appetite when he’s ill, _and_ that Jim tends to get cranky when he doesn’t eat, Blair asks, “Can you make it inside without me? I’m going to pick something up for me anyway. I don’t feel like cooking.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Jim says vaguely. “Knock yourself out.”

 

The deli around the corner has some of the best matzo ball soup that Blair has ever tasted, and he orders a quart of it. “Who’s sick this time, Blair?” Mrs. Feinman asks, knowing that Blair doesn’t pick up soup unless someone is under the weather.

 

Blair grimaces. “Jim has pneumonia,” he admits. “They took X-rays of his lungs and released him with antibiotics, but…”

 

“Of course you’re worried,” she says in a motherly tone. “He’s your partner.”

 

Blair has no idea if Mrs. Feinman thinks he and Jim are sleeping together or not, but their relationship clearly doesn’t bother her—whatever it might be. “Thank you, Mrs. Feinman.”

 

She waves her hand at him. “Never you mind,” she replies. “Give me a minute, and I’ll pack up a few things sure to tempt your Jim’s appetite.”

 

Blair knows better than to argue, although he wishes she were right, and that Jim really was his. By the time Mrs. Feinman finishes filling a large brown paper sack, Blair isn’t sure they’re going to be able to get through that much food. At least Blair isn’t going to need to cook for a couple of days.

 

He pays for the food—much less than the average customer would pay, Blair is certain—and heads back home. Jim is stretched out on the couch when Blair enters, and although he moves as quietly as possible, Jim waves at him over the back of the couch.

 

“I’m fine, Sandburg,” he says, as though reading Blair’s mind.

 

“Mrs. Feinman sent a bunch of stuff,” Blair replies. “So, come over and eat some of it, or you know her feelings will be hurt.”

 

Jim levers himself off the couch, still coughing, and he sounds absolutely terrible. “I’m not very hungry,” Jim protests, but he sits down at the table.

 

“Too bad,” Blair replies. “Did you eat breakfast? Lunch?”

 

Jim shrugs. “I had a couple of pieces of toast and some coffee.”

 

“So, no,” Blair fills in. “Eat the soup, at least. And it looks like Mrs. Feinman sent a loaf of her best challah bread.”

 

He knows Jim’s weakness for good bread, and Jim grins. “Yeah?”

 

Mrs. Feinman also packed some corned beef that will make excellent sandwiches, and a few containers of various kosher salads. Blair packs those away in the fridge and eats the tongue sandwich she’d made for him. Mrs. Feinman is even better than his mom at knowing exactly what Blair likes best, and Blair scarfs the sandwich while keeping a careful eye on Jim.

 

Jim finishes enough soup and bread to satisfy Blair, but when he tries to clear his dishes, Blair waves him off. “Go lay down,” Blair orders. “There’s probably a game on.”

 

He doesn’t argue, and Blair shakes his head. Jim’s docility is only going to last until he’s not so miserable, and then Jim is going to be cranky as hell. “How long did the doctor say you had to be off work?” Blair asks.

 

Jim mumbles something, and Blair calls, “What was that?”

 

“At least until I’m through with the antibiotics,” Jim replies.

 

“So, what? Ten days?”

 

“Yeah, I guess.”

 

Silence falls over the loft, broken only by the sound of water splashing as Blair did the dishes, and an occasional cough from Jim, until even that fades. When Blair checks on him, Jim is sleeping, his labored breathing sounding almost painful to Blair.

 

Remembering that he hasn’t called Simon yet, Blair takes the cordless into his bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. Simon is sympathetic when Blair gives him the news, and he says, “You both have some comp time. Take tomorrow off and enjoy the weekend as much as you can. Someone needs to make sure Jim doesn’t overdo it.”

 

“Thanks, Simon,” Blair replies gratefully. “I’ll see you Monday.”

 

Blair looks around his room thoughtfully and makes a quick decision. He strips the bed and puts on a clean set of flannel sheets, and makes sure the curtains are closed. Grabbing the paperback he’s been reading from the table, Blair settles down in the chair nearest the couch.

 

Although he has the book open, Blair can’t take his eyes off Jim; it’s not often that he has the chance for unfettered observation. Granted, he’s no longer engaged in a formal study of Jim’s senses, but Blair still thinks of himself as a student, both of Jim and of human nature. And, since this is the first time Jim has been really sick since Blair met him, he’s going to make mental notes for the future.

 

Jim stirs, and begins to cough again. Blair winces and grabs a pillow, shoving it against Jim’s chest. “Hang on to that,” Blair says, helping to brace Jim against the back of the couch.

 

“I don’t need to cuddle a pillow,” Jim growls once he gets his breath back.

 

Blair rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but you’re going to be coughing a lot, and your ribs are going to hurt like hell. This will help.”

 

Jim grimaces. “If you say so.”

 

“Just try it,” Blair says. “How do you feel?”

 

“Lousy,” Jim grumbles.

 

“You want to try more cough medicine?”

 

Jim hesitates. “It makes me a little loopy.”

 

It’s not a “no”, and Blair says, “Good thing it’s just me here, then.”

 

The look on Jim’s face suggests he’s not at all sanguine about Blair’s restraint in collecting blackmail material, but he still takes his medicine.

 

Jim collapses back on the couch, throwing his arm over his eyes. Blair turns on the TV and finds a game, setting the sound low. “Jags are playing,” he offers. “Think they’ll make it to the playoffs?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

When Jim starts to nod off again, Blair says, “Jim, why don’t you sleep in my room tonight? I changed the sheets, so they shouldn’t smell.”

 

Jim mumbles something, but the sound is muffled by his arm.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“I said, I like the way you smell.” Jim’s face is red, and he won’t meet Blair’s eyes.

 

This is the first indication that Blair has had that Jim is interested in more than friendship, and if Jim weren’t so sick, Blair might press the issue. Under the circumstances, though, he just files it away with a smile. “It’s probably better if you don’t have to navigate the stairs,” Blair points out, letting Jim’s comment slide. “And my room has doors, which means you’re less likely to wake me up.”

 

Blair adds the last bit with a teasing smile, not wanting to make Jim feel guilty.

 

Jim nods. “Thanks, Chief. I think I’ll take you up on that.” He pushes himself up off the couch, and as he passes Blair, he pats Blair on the shoulder, leaving his hand there for a long moment. “Blair…”

 

Blair smiles, knowing better than anyone how hard it is for Jim to put his emotions into words. It's a good thing that Blair has learned how to read Jim's gestures by now. “You’ll owe me one?”

 

“Probably more than just one,” Jim replies, squeezing Blair's shoulder gratefully. “’Night, Chief.”

 

Blair stays where he is, listening to the soft snick as the French doors close behind Jim, and thinks, _Breathe easy, my friend_.


End file.
